Irrelevance
by Mark Geoffrey Norrish
Summary: Voldemort's portrait is hung in Hogwarts after his defeat. Eternity is a very, very, very long time.


"Are you sure about this?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"I don't know, it just seems a bit … I don't know, disrespectful?"

"It isn't."

"A lot of people died."

"Yeah."

"Don't you think people might object to having that thing right outside Gryffindor Tower?"

Harry set the covered painting against the wall, hung it from the hook, made it level. "Ron, we have the memorial for those who fought for us, so people will remember them. We need a memorial for him, so people won't forget him, and what happens when people like him take over."

"I'm just saying," said Ron, as Harry whipped the cover off, revealing Lord Voldemort.

"_Potter,_" spat the painting. "How did you get a hold of this?"

"I asked for it," Harry replied. "The Ministry auctioned off your stuff a while ago, and for some reason nobody bid against me. I got you for a Knut."

Voldemort glared.

"Pretty arrogant of you, hiring Laurent to paint you, like you thought you'd be a worshiped king forever," said Harry, "but, really, that's abot the least arrogant thing you've ever done, isn't it."

"I will have my revenge for this _mockery,_" Voldemory replied. "You're putting me exactly where I can do the most damage. In front of generations of schoolchildren …"

"The most damage to your credibility, maybe," said Harry. "Have a look around."

"I see one wretched halfblood whose blasted luck lasted far, far longer than it deserved, and the most gormless Weasley I've ever seen. Didn't I kill some of your family, too? A couple of uncles, I think, or maybe cousins once removed?"

Ron's jaw clenched.

"You never did think things through, did you," Harry said pityingly. "And you'll never learn. Oh well. You'll see what I meant. Come on, Ron."

They walked out of sight of the frame. Voldemort watched them leave. From here, without leaving his frame, he could see two other paintings: those of the Fat Lady and a bearded man in a horned helmet and gauntlets, absently swinging a claymore at a troll about two thirds of his height.

"Which of you two fine portraits is in charge around here?" Voldemort asked obeisantly.

"That would be me," said the Fat lady, her eyes fixed to the left of his painting. "I don't like you."

"Oh, you mustn't let those children prejudice you against me," he said syrupily. "You should know how cruel they can –"

"NOBODY LIKES YOU!" roared the Viking-looking man.

Harry and Ron exchanged thumbs up and walked away.

… … …

_Five months later_

The girl stared at the painting.

The painting stared back.

Four first-years had come to watch.

The older girl ignored them, fixated on the painting.

The painting's eyes watered.

The first-years exchanged glances and whispers.

The girl didn't break her gaze.

The painting's eyes flicked to the knot of first-years momentarily.

Luna Lovegood smiled imperceptibly, blinked once, slowly, and glanced back over at the other girls.

"This is You-Know-Who," she said matter-of-factly, as though they couldn't read the title at the base of his frame. "He took over the Ministry of Magic last year. I thought he'd be bigger."

"That's because I'm a painting, idiot," he said.

One would have been hard pressed to guess whether she was ignoring him with aplomb or honestly didn't hear him. "Harry Potter defeated him," she went on. "I thought it was strange how You-Know-Who fought for years and years the first time but not now. I think his heart's not really into it any more."

"This girl is crazy," Voldemort said. "Surely you've heard of her family? The _Quibbler?_"

"Are – are you Luna Lovegood?" asked one of the first years. Luna fixed her unblinking stare on her. "I'm Annie Heart. I – my big sister said she saw you duelling Bellatrix Lestrange. At the battle last year."

"Oh yes," said Luna, as though she'd forgotten. "I think her heart wasn't really in it, either. She wasn't paying much attention when she died."

"Wow," breathed another girl.

"We should leave him for a while, I think," said Luna, indicating Voldemort. "He doesn't like losing."

Voldemort seethed.

… … …

_Five years later_

Annie stopped outside Gryffindor Tower with a double line of freshly sorted first-years behind her. The Fat Lady had requested and been granted a sabbatical by the Charms classroom; the entrance was now guarded by the Mad Viking, whose old spot was left bare.

"Before the year starts, I should warn you," she said, "about Psycho Voldie. He keeps trying to seduce students over to Dark Magic and blood supremacism. I keep telling them to put him somewhere where he won't be bothering every single Gryffindor, like the sub-basement or maybe that big oven in the kitchens, but the Headmistress won't hear of it. So, just mind you ignore him."

"You dare insult me?!" Voldemort shouted. "The entire world quailed at the mere sound of my name!"

"Outside of Hogwarts, a lot of people still do, so don't talk about him too much," Annie went on to the first-years, not deigning to talk to a painting, "but in here … well, it's kind of hard to be afraid of a washed-up _loser_ who doesn't do anything except hiss vaguely racist slurs. Just don't repeat anything he says, because it offends some people who lost family and friends, and you might get in detention or lose points. If anyone else says it, tell me, because it really does bother some people, and Gryffindors don't put up with that sort of bullying."

She turned and gave the password to the Mad Viking, and led the first-years into Gryffindor Common Room. One blond boy dawdled to talk to Voldemort; he was a natural leader, and already had two friends, who slipped Annie's notice.

"Heed!" cried the Mad Viking, making the two friends jump, but the blond boy was intent on Voldemort.

"What's blood supremacism?" he asked.

"The fact that brave purebloods like yourself should stand up for your rights," Voldemort said. His painting was done by the best magical artist in the world and would easily last for centuries with periodic restorations, but even in life he hadn't been as patient as he liked to think, and his plans had got nowhere since he'd arrived here. "Mudbloods steal the magic right out of your body. It's up to us to stand up and stop them!"

"What's a Mudblood?" asked the boy.

"The child of two Muggles, or a Muggle and a Mudblood," said Voldemort. "No better than the ground they walk on."

The blond boy glanced to his left, where Scott, a smaller brunet boy, did a double-take. Scott had mentioned earlier that his parents were an engineer and an interior decorator. The blond one deliberately reached into his pocket, pulled out a bottle of pumpkin juice, and threw it in Voldemort's face, before leading his friends after Annie. The skinny girl on their right rubbed shoulders with Scott comfortingly, and the blond clapped him on the back in solidarity.

The Mad Viking swung shut behind them, sniggering at Voldemort. "Humiliated by children yet again, hm? Rather a talent of yours, eh?"

… … …

_Five decades later_

Two fourth-year Gryffindors approached the painting for the first time in over twenty years.

"Excuse me, Mr Voldemort?" asked the first, a short Chinese girl with a boyish haircut and an American accent.

He looked up, surprised.

"We have an assignment about the Hundred Weeks," she continued, "and the books say you were the leader of the bad guys, so we were hoping you could help us?"

"Evil is a matter of perspective," Voldemort said mysteriously.

"So you took over in … nineteen ninety … five?" the boy tried.

"1997," Voldemort corrected. It still irritated him, no matter how much more often this sort of thing happened these days.

"You're hopeless, Roy," said the girl.

"Oh, let off me, Jen," said Roy, "nobody cares about twentieth century history but you. I don't know why they don't let us drop it until sixth year."

"Oh, come on, it's _fascinating,_" said Jen. "It's so retro. You should see the hokey old spells they used." She giggled and mimed the incorrect wand motion. "_Impeddy-mental!_ I can't believe they ever hit anyone with those. Mehmed showed me some, they learned all about them in Re-enactment Club."

"I was the most feared Dark Lord in history," Voldemort said with a frown.

"Ooh, I was wondering about that," said Jen. "What actually is Dark? Our textbook's a bit of a joke, really."

"It's the belief in the old bloodlines and a thousand years of tradition," Voldemort said. "It's where you have to protect Magic itself, no matter what."

"Oh, wow," said Roy, "you actually believed that back then?" He snorted. "No wonder you lost."

"Roy!" cried Jen, glancing at Voldemort, for fear he'd stop talking. "Don't mind him. So," she rephrased the essay topic, "how would you say you were similar to the old feudal lords?"

Voldemort stared at her.

… … …

_Five centuries later_

Eternity is

a

very

very

very

long time.


End file.
